The Matrimonial Advertisement

by Mimi Matthews

  Helena turned her head to gaze out the window. He could no longer see her eyes. He couldn’t tell if his words had hurt her. “When all of this is over,” she said, “I’ll consent to an annulment, if that’s what you wish.”

  His heart stopped. What in blazes? He sat up straighter in his seat, his body tensing, as if anticipating a blow. “Is that what you wish?”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead. I can’t. Not with all that’s looming in front of me. I’m already overwhelmed.” Her throat contracted in a visible swallow. “But you needn’t worry I’ll hold you to your vows. Not when they were given under false pretenses. If you want to dissolve our marriage, I’ll agree to it without any fuss. I owe you that much.”

  His jaw hardened. Bloody hell. Is that what she believed? That she was in debt to him somehow? Was that the reason for her kindness? For her kisses? “You don’t owe me anything.”

  “Don’t I? You’ve saved my life on more than one occasion. First by marrying me and then by rescuing me from the cliffs.” She looked at him briefly. “I owe you everything, Justin.”

  He frowned. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No. That isn’t how any of this works. It isn’t a tabulation of debts and repayments. I advertised for a wife and you answered. It doesn’t signify what drove you to it. That ceased to matter the moment we exchanged vows in Abbot’s Holcombe. We’re married now, in law if not in deed. I’d walk through fire for you, and you wouldn’t owe me a thing.”

  She finally turned from the window. “Because I’m your wife.”

  “Yes. And because you’re you. A lady who makes me smile. Who’s kind and thoughtful and loyal as all hell. A lady whose hand fits perfectly in mine. And who returns my kisses so very sweetly. For all of those reasons, yes. I’d go to the ends of the earth for you, Helena. You must know that.”

  A flush of color worked its way from her throat all the way to the roots of her hair. She bent her head. “I-I didn’t know.”

  Justin tugged at the knot of his cravat, brutally suppressing a swell of embarrassment. He wasn’t accustomed to making pretty speeches. “Well, you do now,” he said gruffly. “No more secrets, remember?”

  “I remember.” She worried the finger of one of her gloves. “And I like you very much, too, Justin. For those exact same reasons. I hope we might be friends.”

  “We are friends.”

  Her blush deepened. “Then I hope we might be more.”

  Their eyes met and Justin felt his heart lurch back to life. It pounded swiftly. Painfully. “We are,” he said again.

  The train chose that moment to grind into motion. A shrill whistle pierced the air and the conductor shouted, his words unintelligible over the roar of the engine. Their railway carriage rattled as the train began moving slowly on the track.

  Helena’s fingers tightened together in her lap.

  There was no turning back now. Their journey to London had officially begun.

  Justin rose and moved to take the empty seat beside her. “You seem very far away all of a sudden. Here. Take my hand.”

  She flicked an anxious glance out the window as she slipped her hand into his. The train was picking up speed, rapidly leaving the station behind. “I feel like Daniel must have felt, walking into the lion’s den.”

  “You’re a little scared, that’s all.”

  “I’m petrified.”

  “But you’re not alone. Far from it. You have Finchley on your side. And Miss Holloway.”

  “And you.” She pressed his hand.

  “And me.” He returned the firm clasp of her fingers. “For as long as you require, in whatever manner you require.”

  London, England

  October, 1859

  “There’s been a slight change of plans in regard to your lodgings,” Mr. Finchley said as they stood outside of Waterloo Station. The cabstand was nearby, but he didn’t hail a hansom. The three of them would never have fit inside one. Instead, he raised his hand to a coachman who was sitting on the perch of a four-wheeler parked across the way.

  The coachman brought the carriage round and waited as they all bundled in. There was wet straw on the floor of the cab and the interior smelled heavily of cheap perfume. Helena was tempted to press her handkerchief to her nose.

  “What do you mean?” Justin asked. He was seated beside her on the forward-facing seat.

  Mr. Finchley sat across from them. He was wearing a handsome wool overcoat and carrying a silver-topped walking stick. He looked a great deal more fashionable than when Helena had seen him last. “There was some difficulty in finding a house to let,” he said. “But it’s nothing to concern yourselves with. Not when there’s a perfectly suitable residence available in Half Moon Street.”

  “With Jenny?” Helena’s mood brightened a little.

  “If that’s acceptable to all parties.” Mr. Finchley exchanged a glance with Justin. “It’s a genteel enough address for our purposes, and there’s plenty of room. I’ve hired a skeleton staff. People I know and trust.”

  Mr. Finchley’s idea of a skeleton staff was a stern-faced married couple of middle years who looked like they’d seen a fair bit of hardship. The husband was to act as both butler and footman, and the wife was to perform the duties of a cook-housekeeper.

  Helena hardly noticed them. When they arrived at the little house in Half Moon Street, she went straight to Jenny, enfolding her friend in a fierce embrace.

  Jenny hugged her tightly. “You reek of cheap scent,” she said with a laugh. “But how well you look.”

  Helena took a step back to examine her friend. Jenny was wearing a sensible, unflounced poplin skirt and a black velvet caraco. The loose, thigh-length jacket nipped in at her waist and flared down over her hips. She didn’t look any the worse for her altercation with Uncle Edward, but Helena knew that looks could be deceiving. “Are you well?”

  Jenny smiled. “He didn’t touch me. I promise.”

  Helena saw nothing about which to smile. “It’s quite enough that he shouted at you and turned you out.”

  “I’ll admit, it wasn’t pleasant. But I’m not made of spun sugar. You know that. Besides, I was far more worried about you.” Jenny held out her hand. “Come upstairs with me. I have something to show you.”

  Helena looked back at Justin. He and Mr. Finchley were talking quietly with each other, their faces serious. He caught her gaze and smiled slightly.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Must you ask his permission?” Jenny inquired in a low voice as they climbed up the stairs to the third floor.

  “No. Of course not. But I’ve been clinging to him awfully since we left Devon. I’m amazed he has any circulation left in his arm.”

  “You do like him then?”

  “I do,” Helena said. “Rather too much.”

  “There’s no such thing as too much, is there? Unless he doesn’t like you back. In which case, you must at least try to appear indifferent.” Jenny drew Helena into one of the bedrooms. “Look.”

  It was a large room with an equally large curtained bed. On the opposite wall, a tall pier-glass mirror was mounted between two windows draped in chintz. On the left an oil lamp with a cut-glass shade reposed on a marble-topped walnut chiffonier. On the right was a dressing table and an oversized burled walnut wardrobe. The doors of the wardrobe were open, revealing a profusion of muslin, fine woolens, and silk.

  Helena’s jaw dropped in amazement. “My clothes!”

  “They were delivered yesterday,” Jenny said. “Everything but your jewels. Lord Castleton has taken to keeping those in his safe.”

  “But how…?” Helena went to the wardrobe, her gaze skimming over the familiar petticoats, bodices, and skirts. Some articles of clothing hung on pegs installed at the back of the wardrobe, others were folded on the wardrobe shelves, each item carefully separated by tissue paper. “Uncle
Edward can’t have allowed it.”

  “Heavens, no. It was Mrs. Butterfield who arranged it. She had Martha and Maisy pack everything in trunks while your uncle was at his club. Two of the footmen carried the trunks down and put them in a hired carriage.”

  Mrs. Butterfield had been the housekeeper at the Earl of Castleton’s residence in Grosvenor Square for many long years. She’d served Helena’s father and then her brother and had seemed happy to continue in service to Helena’s uncle when he ascended to the title. She’d never once indicated, neither by word nor deed, that she disapproved of Uncle Edward’s cruelties.

  “I wouldn’t have thought Mrs. Butterfield would take such a risk,” Helena said. “She’s never been anything but loyal to my uncle.”

  “Mrs. Butterfield is loyal to all the Earls of Castleton. That doesn’t mean she’s without a conscience.”

  Helena refrained from commenting. Her final months living in her uncle’s house had been a living nightmare. She couldn’t recall any of the staff being remotely sympathetic. Indeed, most of them—including Mrs. Butterfield—had been unable to look her in the eye.

  “I’ve put most of your things away,” Jenny said. “I’ll finish unpacking for you this afternoon. I intend to play lady’s maid, you know.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m in dead earnest. Do you think Mrs. Jarrow has the first inkling of how to arrange a lady’s hair? She can cook, though, I’ll give her that. And she’s a dab hand at the mending.” Jenny straightened one of the little glass cosmetic pots on the dressing table. “Mrs. Jarrow and her husband would do anything for Mr. Finchley. He saved their son from going to prison.”

  “Did he?” Helena glanced at Jenny. “How?”

  “By writing a legal paper. A brief or some kind of argument. I don’t understand it. Neither do Mr. and Mrs. Jarrow, frankly. Most of what Mr. Finchley does seems a mystery.”

  Helena wandered around the room, taking in the heavy furnishings, thick carpet, and patterned wallpaper.

  Jenny trailed after her, still talking. “Take this house, for example. Mr. Finchley insisted on having it. I told him I’d be quite happy with a room in a boarding house somewhere, but he wouldn’t be dissuaded.”

  “He thought you’d be safer here.”

  “Even so…” Jenny sat down on the edge of the bed. “I shouldn’t have permitted him to spend a single penny on my behalf. It’s utterly scandalous to be in debt to a single gentleman. If word got out, I would be ruined.”

  “You’re not in debt to Mr. Finchley.” Helena sank down beside Jenny. The counterpane rumpled beneath their combined weight. “Justin has taken over the lease. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “It doesn’t change the fact that I’ve been living here for the past week. And I’ve been permitting Mr. Finchley to visit. Everyone on the street will have seen him entering the house. They’ll think I’m his fancy woman.”

  “Foolish people. He might be your brother.”

  A rare blush tinted Jenny’s cheeks. “It doesn’t feel as if he’s my brother.”

  Helena lifted her brows. “He hasn’t made any overtures, has he?”

  “Not a single one,” Jenny said with a grimace. She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “But let’s not talk about him. I want to hear about you. Tell me everything about Greyfriar’s Abbey. And about Mr. Thornhill, too.”

  Helena spent the next half hour describing life at the Abbey. She talked about the cliffs and the sea and appalling weather. She talked about Mr. Boothroyd, Neville, the servants, and the dogs. She even talked about the night Mr. Glyde had arrived with the magistrate.

  But despite Jenny’s request, she shared little about Justin. Her conversations with him were too private. Too precious. And she certainly wasn’t going to discuss his kisses. Not even with a bosom friend.

  “You sound as if you’re happy there,” Jenny said when she’d finished.

  Helena smoothed a wrinkle in the counterpane, her thoughts drifting back to the grim reality of her situation. “I think I could be. If only—”

  “If only you were free of your uncle and Mr. Glyde.” Jenny paused. “I saw him yesterday.”

  Helena’s gaze snapped to hers. “My uncle?”

  “No. Mr. Glyde. He was walking in Piccadilly, as bold as you please. The great brute. I had half a mind to shove him in front of an omnibus.”

  “He didn’t see you, did he?”

  Jenny shook her head. “I was very careful.”

  Helena rose from the edge of the mattress. She began to pace the room. “You can’t underestimate him, Jenny. I know he looks like a stupid lummox, but he’s dangerous. Not to mention, he has a grip like an iron vise. Only recall how he used to grab my arms and haul me about. I still have the bruises.”

  “At least he never throttled you. Not like your uncle did that day.”

  “Uncle Edward was out of temper. He’d been drinking and he’d just lost a fortune in play. He was desperate for me to sign those papers.”

  Jenny’s eyes kindled. “Don’t you dare make excuses for him! He might have killed you. I thought he had for a moment.”

  Helena didn’t like to think of it. Her uncle had grasped her throat and shaken her like a terrier might shake a rat. She’d been paralyzed with terror. Unable to scream. Unable to breathe.

  “I’m not making excuses. I’m simply stating a fact. My uncle may be devious and even violent on occasion, but Mr. Glyde is ruthless. He came all the way to the Abbey in the middle of a storm, Jenny. He’s determined to drag me back to Uncle Edward so he can lock me away somewhere and throw away the key.”

  “He won’t succeed.” Justin’s deep voice sounded from the door.

  Helena turned abruptly, her pulse leaping at the sight of him.

  He didn’t enter the bedroom. Merely stood there, his shoulder propped lazily against the doorframe. “Come downstairs to the parlor,” he said. “Finchley would like to speak with you.”

  “That’s your plan?” Helena stared at Mr. Finchley, incredulous. “To keep my uncle tied up with legal documents until the newspaper article goes to print?”

  She was seated next to Jenny on an overstuffed chintz sofa in the parlor. Mr. Finchley was in a chair across from them, the pomade in his dark brown hair gleaming in the light of the gas lamps. Only Justin remained standing. He leaned against the carved mantelshelf, idly turning a little lacquered box in his hand. Helena had no doubt but that he was listening to the proceedings with rapt attention.

  “It’s not foolproof,” Mr. Finchley said. “Indeed, it’s rather flimsy on its face. Nothing has yet been submitted to the courts. At this stage it’s little more than a furious exchange of letters between Castleton’s attorneys and myself. The point is, they understand there’s a strong legal basis for our claim.”

  Helena was at a loss. “What claim? I thought we weren’t going to engage my uncle in the courts.”

  “We aren’t. But his attorneys don’t know that. As far as they’re concerned, the battle has been engaged.”

  She gave him a bewildered look.

  Mr. Finchley leaned forward in his chair. “Think of it like this. You are, essentially, a piece of property, the ownership of which is in dispute.”

  A spark of indignation stiffened her spine. “I don’t care to think of myself as a piece of property, sir.”

  “It’s not a personal aspersion, my lady. It’s a legal reality. In the eyes of courts, you’re the property of your husband. Your uncle’s only hope of gaining control of you—and thereby your fortune—is to first prove that your marriage to Thornhill is invalid. His attorneys strike me as competent fellows. They’ll have advised him to steer clear of you until the courts have had their say in the matter.”

  “In other words,” Justin said, “your uncle shouldn’t be coming to our door with the magistrate anytime soon.”


  “Or so we hope.” Mr. Finchley briefly removed his spectacles. “Unfortunately, it won’t stop him from sending one of his henchmen to abduct you and spirit you away to a private asylum somewhere.”

  Justin returned the lacquered box to the mantelshelf. “Which is why you’re not, on any account, to leave this house unaccompanied.”

  Helena compressed her lips. His property, indeed. But she wouldn’t dispute the sense of his edict. “You needn’t worry about that. I have no desire to go anywhere without you.”

  Mr. Finchley’s legal stratagem didn’t make her feel very much safer. She still spent the evening pacing and peering out the window of her bedroom. Only by repeatedly reminding herself of Justin’s presence in the adjoining room and of Jenny’s presence down the hall could she finally get to sleep.

  The next morning, Mr. Finchley returned to the house in Half Moon Street. He wasn’t alone. With him was a handsome dark-haired gentleman possessed of the bluest eyes Helena had ever seen.

  “Lady Helena,” Mr. Finchley said. “May I present Mr. Charles Pelham?”

  Helena shook Mr. Pelham’s hand. He was of a height with Justin, with a serious face and a gaze so penetrating it felt as if he were attempting to plumb the depths of her soul.

  And perhaps he was.

  “Shall we all repair to the parlor?” Jenny asked. “Unless you’d prefer to speak to Mr. Pelham alone.”

  The notion of sharing the details of her ordeal in front of a room full of people made Helena slightly nauseated. But these weren’t strangers. They were her friends. People who cared for her.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she said.

  Justin’s hand found the small of her back as they all made their way upstairs. She hadn’t had a moment alone with him since they disembarked from the train. She missed him. Which was stupid, really. He hadn’t gone anywhere. At any given moment, he was no more than a room away. And yet…

  Somehow, in a very short span of time, his presence had become essential to her happiness. To her sense of safety and well-being. She needed to be with him. To hear his voice and feel the touch of his hand holding hers.